


(First Kisses and) Second Chances

by FrozenMemories



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Episode Related, Fix-It (kind of?), M/M, S14E01 The Devil and D.B. Russell, s13e14 Exile, s13e18 Sheltered, s13e20 Fearless, s13e22 Skin in the Game, s14e04 Last Supper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-06-26 12:51:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrozenMemories/pseuds/FrozenMemories
Summary: David is going to get married and Nick finds he has a hard time dealing with it. He's not jealous though, no way...*Spoiler alert*...except, he is.





	1. (would I be) guided by regret

**Author's Note:**

> The whole Elisabetta storyline has been bugging me forever... but it inspired me to write this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> David is going to get married and Nick has a reaction to the news.

You can’t tell what bothers you more, the fact itself or that you had to hear it through the lab’s grapevine. You shouldn’t be surprised - it’s not like you’ve been particularly close, especially not over the past couple of months. It’s only now that you realize you haven’t even taken the time to notice this before, let alone question it. But coming to think of it you can’t help being hit by a pang of regret. Things have definitely cooled down between the two of you and you find yourself wondering if that is the reason he hasn’t ever mentioned her before.

She's a tall, hot _bombshell_ and he met her last year in Italy is about as much as you get out of Henry - not that you would actively probe him for more information. Because truly, you don’t care. He’s free to date whomever he wants to date. It just surprises you that he would want to _marry_ her so soon; he never struck you as the type.

~

In theory you have one week to process the information - in reality you spend the whole week pushing it far back into a corner of your mind - until he eventually brings it up himself.

“If you must know, uh, it's Morgan's character reference to Immigration in support of my engagement to Elisabetta.” You don’t understand why it feels like a stab in the gut that you haven’t been prepared for, even though you should have seen it coming at you for miles ahead.

“Wow. Well, you know, I would've been happy to write you a character reference.” You cannot help but make a joke about it, “I mean I would've left out the part about your criminal record but...”

“Well, clearly I should have talked to you about it first,” he promptly quips and yes, maybe he should have - you keep that thought to yourself and try to change the direction of your exchange.

“Congratulations, buddy, I look forward to meeting her sometime.” The words just come out and you try to mean them; smile because that’s the polite thing to do. And honestly, you _want_ to be happy for him.

“An oversight I plan to correct.” His tone is almost light-hearted; your conversation is almost one between friends.

“Hear that, Sam? He's getting married.” You turn to your _real_ buddy, glad that he provides an excuse to look away from David’s tense and awkward grin. It feels so strange to say it. Sam barks at you and you let out a helpless little laugh, hoping the situation is going to dissolve itself that way, because there’s something about it that twists your stomach into knots.

You have to change the topic before you say something that could make this turn embarrassing.

“So, stomach contents,” you inquire, down to business.

“Yeah, in my office.”

“Alright.”

You have no choice but to follow him. At least you can shift your attention to the case instead of thinking about why the hell this feels so wrong. Well, you can try.

~

By the end of your shift you still find yourself mulling over your earlier encounter. You haven’t even realized how much the underlying tension has been eating away at you until you walk past his empty work station on your way out and even the _absence_ of him is making you think of his stupid, half-assed grin.

If you were honest with yourself you’d acknowledge the feeling for what it is. But you’ve never been prone to admitting to these kinds of sentiments. And anyway, you’re not jealous - you dismiss that notion before it even gets the chance to materialize in your conscience. It can’t be jealousy. But then, what is it? There’s always been an underlying tension between you, rooted probably in the lingering mutual attraction, but that’s never been a problem before – so why now? Why has the prospect of him getting married – unavailable - such an impact on you all of a sudden? It’s not like this _thing_ you’ve had ever bordered anywhere close to a relationship. Just because you’ve fucked him a couple of times doesn’t mean you still _want_ him or anything.

Unwilling to immerse in those thoughts, yet unable to cut them off, you consider the less compromising explanations. Maybe you envy him a little, for having found someone things could work out with; someone who can obviously offer him something you couldn’t, wouldn’t – not that he ever asked of anything from you. After all, it was just physical. Meaningless. Fun. You’ve always been the _keep your options open_ kind and he deserves someone who wants him for more than that, because in spite of all his flaws and ill-mannered antics, he is a genuinely good guy. If he found love you shouldn’t begrudge him that.

Then again, they barely know each other - can that even _be_ love?

It’s none of your damn business.

 _I look forward to meeting her sometime_ , your own voice echoes through your mind.

Staring at the row of lockers you ponder the truth of those words. A part of you seriously believes them to be true, is curious about this woman he is so evidently enamored with. And that’s the same part that feels guilty for the nagging voice in the back of your head that insists this is bound to crash and burn. He is going to get hurt.

Not that you would care. He isn’t even your friend; you have no right to be so affected by the whole damn situation - by _him_.

You can’t help but slam the locker door so hard that it springs right back open, almost hitting you in the face. You close it again with slightly less force and bang your forehead against the cold metal in defeat, letting a breathless “fuck” escape you. This really has to stop.

A shuffling sound comes from the doorway. You don’t have to open your eyes to know who just walked into the room and stopped barely a few feet behind you. You can sense his presence, recognize the sound of his slowly drawn breath.

“You okay?” he asks, a note of honest concern coloring his voice.

You could lie, but what would be the point? He’s obviously seen your little outburst.

“No,” you grind out and leave the room before those damn blue eyes make you say something you’re going to regret.

You quickly make your way to the break room, where Sam is being entertained by Morgan - or maybe it’s the other way around, you can’t really tell.

“Let’s go, bud,” you prompt and Sam jumps up, looking just as relieved as you feel to get out of this place.

~

An extensive walk with Sam has calmed you down considerably and a long, hot shower has soothed away most of your thoughts. A cold beer should take the edge off the rest - at least that’s what you aim for as you slump down on the couch and put your feet up on the coffee table. Beside you Sam rests, blissfully exhausted.

You envy him this life of simplicity, his beautiful peace of mind.

You don’t remember the last time you’ve felt this way; you’re inclined to say you never have. It bothers you, because you just don’t understand what it is about him that has you so riled up. It’s not like you’re _in love_ with him - how could you possibly be? He’s a goddamn idiot who says the most ridiculous things in the most inappropriate situations and who makes a fool of himself wherever he can. Like a couple of weeks ago when he was stalking around the lab in high heels in order to identify a certain type of shoe prints. Or shortly after that when he almost fell off his chair in a haste to click some tabs shut because you caught him – not for the first time – surfing the internet for _personal interests_ during work hours. And then there is that silly way he always dances around his lab when he thinks nobody is watching, which is actually kind of endearing… okay, who’s the idiot here? You force that stupid smile off your face before your thoughts can drift even further into dangerous territory.

Maybe it’s time for a distraction, you muse. Fishing out your phone you scroll through your contact list until your thumb hovers above the number of Adam. You let vivid memories of his dark hair and toned chest, covered in sweat, flash though your inner vision, but can’t really match the corresponding eyes. They’re not blue, that’s what matters. It would be so easy - you know he’d jump at the chance to meet up again. It’s been a while but you know he’s always game. (And damn, is he good at that game.)

All you have to do is hit call, why won't your fingers cooperate? With an elongated sigh you throw your phone into the cushions. Not today, you decide, as you realize how drained you actually feel.

Sam rests his head on your leg and you ruffle his fur in response. “Come on,” you tell him as you drag yourself up, “let’s go to bed.”

~


	2. (I live my life) within the guidelines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nick's a tough guy. And he's not in love. Just... distracted.

The following weeks pass by in a rush; work keeps you busy and your attitude toward David somehow normalizes again. It must have been the initial surprise that had you thrown so off balance. You still haven’t met _Elisabetta_ and you still don’t like the idea of their engagement but you’ve managed to deduce that your disapproval is mostly based on friendly concern. You’ve heard the whispers about green cards and immigration regulations. You don’t trust her intentions and frankly you don’t want to see him get his heart broken.

~

The first time you actually see her is in passing; she’s stalking along the corridors of the lab like she owns the place - like she owns _him_ \- and you feel a little bewildered. Sure, you’ve heard the stories, but she’s nothing like you imagined.

It’s become somewhat of a habit of hers to visit during shifts, or so you’ve been told. She’ll just strut in, dropping by to bring him lunch, or supposedly to check up on him. You wonder who the driving force behind that is. Does she need to assert her position as the wife to be or does he simply want to show her off? You lean toward the former - he does seem uncomfortable with this new kind of attention. You think. But do you even really know him that well? Does she? (And does she know about you?)

It hasn't been your plan to run into her again but when you're making your way over to ballistics they’re suddenly both standing right there in the hallway, side by side, practically blocking your path.

“Elisabetta, mia amore, meet Nick,” he gushes in introduction, then motions between the two of you to make yourself acquainted. You extend your hand and she grabs it loosely in greeting.

“It is so nice to meet you,” she offers in a heavy Italian accent while she regards you with those big brown eyes of hers. You can’t help but notice that she’s pretty. Under different circumstances, maybe years ago, you could have been drawn to someone like her.

You return the sentiment and exchange some meaningless small talk with them. It’s more of an effort on your part than you’d like to admit but you’re willing to make it because you do want to see what David sees in her. Yet, something about her irks you.

Her dress is so revealing you fear her boobs are going to fall out. It’s not that you can’t appreciate female bodies, far from it, but you don’t like it when they flaunt it so excessively. You simply don’t see the appeal – you wonder if he does, and if it turns him on.

Just focus, stay nice, you remind yourself as you ask her how she likes Vegas so far. To your own disgrace you have to confess that you zone out somewhere in the middle of her reply.

Remotely you register him chiming in, rambling on about all of the places he has taken her to see and you do your best to keep track of the conversation while your subconscious analyses the strange tension that floats between them. There is something phony about the way she says his name, something disconcerting about the way he wears his grin like a mask.

You try to laugh and make agreeing noises in the appropriate places as you struggle not to think about how convinced you are that he’d waggle his tail for her like a dog, if he had one.

A few more minutes into the strained conversation and David finally saves you by excusing themselves – she has to leave again and he has work to do. You all but flee to your office, ballistics momentarily forgotten.

Once you’re alone behind closed doors you let out a frustrated sigh. That’s when you decide you’re going to call Adam after all.

~

You can’t sleep. Shouldn’t you feel tired? You certainly were exhausted after the morning’s activities, when you walked out of Adam’s apartment building and over to your car. It had been a pleasant distraction, just as predicted, and it left you in a perfect state of physical satisfaction, your thoughts miles away from grey haired trace techs and their busty Italian fiancées. If only the effect could have lasted a little longer.

You toss and turn until Sam complains about your rustling by jumping off the bed. Throwing him an apology you relocate to the living room, where you turn on the TV to watch some random documentaries; that eventually does the trick and lulls you into a hazy slumber.

When you wake merely a few hours later you need an extra shot of coffee to kick start your brain. You take a quick shower but forgo the trouble of shaving - you’re feeling a little gruff and don’t mind an appearance to match.

~

You decide to let the stubble grow for a while. To be honest, it’s been less of an active decision than a matter of not giving a damn. You’ve skipped the gym a couple of times in a row and overall you feel vaguely dissatisfied with yourself lately, so why bother shaving?

“Rough day?” Greg greets you at the beginning of your shift and you realize that you must look worse than you thought.

“Rough week,” you shrug, “the usual.”

“Anything you wanna talk about?” He wouldn’t be Greg if he didn’t ask.

Putting on a casual smile you slap him on the shoulder, “No, man, I’m good.”

Then, as an afterthought you add, “But I’d be free for breakfast and maybe a couple of beers after shift?”

He grins in that excited little boy way that makes it so hard for you to remember that he is almost forty.

“Sure, you got yourself a date.” His eagerness is contagious and you grin at him involuntarily.

“It’s not a date, dude,” you remind him – just in case.

~

“Is it ‘bring your dog to work’ day?” Morgan quips from her place at the table.

“We were just coming home from the vet. I thought I'd bring him up here to see some friends, maybe cheer him up a little bit,” you tell her as you pet Sam’s fur affectionately. He lets out a little whine to underline your point. Sometimes you suspect he was trained to react to the word 'vet'.

“I bet you Sam's bored,” Morgan assesses, as if she knew him better than you do.

“Are you kidding me? This dog's living the life. I treat him like a king.” And you’re proud of it, too. You’re absolutely determined to be the best ‘dad’ possible for this fella.

Morgan laughs at that, “Nick, he used to be a cop, now he's retired. He probably misses the field.”

She might actually have a point there, you’ve never thought about it that way.

“Is she right, Sam?” you ask him, “You bored? You want to do some work? Travaillez?”

At the last word he pipes up with a bark.

“Told you,” Morgan states with a smug expression and points her finger at you. Then she’s back to the case and you’re left in the break room to contemplate her words. Maybe you can find something to do for your boy, while he’s already at the lab with you.

~

It’s just his luck that your current case turns out to involve an area sweep in the desert, so you buckle up and get yourselves ready to head out into the field. You can’t tell who’s more excited about the mission, Morgan or Sam.

What you find out there – what Sam finds – is the entrance to an underground bunker. And don’t you just love going underground…

You swallow the constrictive feelings as you descend the stairs, gun drawn and all senses on high alert, Morgan right on your heels. You try not to let it show but there is apprehension in your every step.

The place has an eerie gloom, covered in red emergency lights and the empty fatigues lining the walls don’t make it any more welcoming.

There’s no radio reception downstairs so you send Morgan up to call for back-up. Against better judgment you find yourself opening the heavy vault door at the end of the corridor. Actions like this have been criticized as reckless by your supervisors and coworkers before but you disregard them for the sake of curiosity. They may have a point, you have to admit, trespassing into an uncleared bunker all on your own isn’t exactly standard procedure. But you’re here now and nobody else seems to be. Back-up is going to arrive soon, anyway.

The interior of the scene is impressive you note as you let your gaze swipe around. One would never guess from the outside that there is a place fully equipped to live in below the endless planes of dry sand and even drier vegetation topside.

You call out for Morgan before you’re going to start a more thorough look around when you hear the unmistakable sound of a shotgun safety being disabled right behind you. Slowly you turn around and find yourself staring down the barrel of a gun – this is why you should have waited.

“You don’t belong here,” a deep voice tells you.

On the outside you may appear barely fazed but your heart is hammering wildly inside your ribcage and your thoughts are racing at the speed of light. You try to play it cool, tell him you’re with the LVPD, that there are cops on the way over, and remind yourself to keep breathing. You’ll _never_ get used to this – wondering if this is going to be it, your last day on earth.

Inside your head you hear Sara’s voice _when it’s your day it’s your day._

But not today. Morgan clicks the safety of her gun and points it at the guy. 

~

She’s still a little shaken, Morgan admits, and you play down your own agitation in favor of calming her with a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She smiles in silent gratefulness while you both watch the bustling of the squad cars that have just arrived at the entrance to the bunker.

One of these days your luck is bound to run out. This is why you don’t let any of your relationships get serious, you remind yourself. This job is a lot easier without worrying about leaving someone behind - who would want to do that to a person they love?

~

It's been another long day and you're not in the mood to reflect on it, as you pull a bottle of beer from your fridge and walk over to the couch where Sam is already waiting for you. Some days closing a case and finding out the truth behind those heinous crimes is a lot less satisfying than it should be. You try not to let it affect you as much as it used to in the past, but some bitter fates will always manage to get under your skin.

You can’t shake the image of the boy’s face, Dylan. The fear in his eyes when he was faced with his father, while he knew all along that the man had killed his boyfriend out of pure bigotry and hate. You cannot help but admire his courage, though, standing up and telling the truth. You reminisce about your own youth and wonder if you would have been that brave at his age. Hell, you’re not even that brave now. You would have never admitted to your feelings for other boys back then, you’re _still_ hiding that from most of the people around you.

Would it make you feel better if you were able to tell someone? Would they understand? You've asked yourself those same questions many times before and always found excuses not to - it's nobody's business who you're attracted to, anyway. Still there's a voice inside your head, challenging you: _it might just make that little bit of a difference_.

One of these days, you resolve, you’re going to confide in Greg. He’s the last person who would judge you, you're more than sure of that.

~  



	3. (the pain) I can't forget

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's trying. And some days it's almost alright.

It’s been another dire week, yet another case that rattled your composure and it’s one of those moments where you wonder if you wouldn’t be better off doing something else. If there is one thing you despise more than hate crimes it is any notion of child abuse. You’ve tried to shake it off, immerse yourself in the next case, but once the dark thoughts are triggered it usually takes a while until they fade and let you fall asleep again at night. An overbearing sense of exhaustion seeps through your bones as you fight to stay focused on the car you’re processing.

~

“Hey Nick,” Henry stops you from leaving the DNA lab with your results in hand, “I was thinking, since Hodges’ wedding day is getting closer and he doesn’t really seem to have many friends outside the labs, shouldn’t we throw him a bachelor party or something?”

Should you? You swallow the groan you feel rising in your throat until it comes out as a muffled grunt.

“Yeah sure, bud,” you say, “though you better consult Greg about that, he knows more about the club scene and how to throw a party.” Your mind flashes back to Henry’s unfortunate birthday road trip and you imagine what a bachelor party between the four of you could possibly look like, then quickly shake the thought away, “besides, I’m busy.”

Henry still looks satisfied enough with your answer and promises to keep you in the loop. Great. You’ve barely gotten accustomed to the whole idea, but to celebrate it? That’s got to be tough. As you walk away from Henry you mentally compile a list of excuses you could use to get out of it. But that wouldn’t be fair, would it? Henry does have a point, your mismatched little group of coworkers is the closest David has to friends (as far as you know). Besides, you did promise yourself to make an effort.

~

“You got something on the sticky substance from the car seat?” you ask without preamble as you all but barge into the trace lab. David raises an eyebrow at you.

“I always have _something,_ ” he claims defensively, then eyes you more intently and furrows his brows.

“You alright?” he asks instead of bothering with the information you came for.

“The trace?” You demand, fully aware that your tone is uncalled for. He hasn’t done anything to warrant this treatment, but somehow you still feel edgy and he just _irritates_ you.

“Well, someone had fun in the backseat,” he declares, oblivious to your mood (or plainly dismissing it on purpose).

“It’s lube. But not the regular stuff, this is of the fancy kind.” He grins and pulls one of those gratingly absurd faces that is supposed to be suggestive but makes him look like the dork he is, before he continues to rattle down the components and explains, “it’s self warming when it comes into contact with skin, makes for some very exciting sensation enhancement…”

“Don’t do that,” you interrupt, making him look sincerely dumbfounded. He obviously didn't expect you to cut down his elaborate presentation, since you usually find his performances amusing and tend to humor him - but today you just can’t take it.

“Do what?” He feigns innocence. Or is it possible that he’s really that clueless?

“Don’t try to flirt with me,” you growl, carefully avoiding eye contact.

“I ugh… I wasn’t,” he stammers and you clench your teeth, already regretting that you’ve brought it up.

“Whatever,” you manage to grind out, “don’t do it again.”

Grabbing for the sheet of paper he has been reading off you turn to get out of there as quickly as you can without virtually starting to jog.

You feel like a big fucking idiot. Why not fess up to him right away while you’re at it?

~

Enough! You stare at your reflection in the restroom mirror, cold water trickling down your face. What the hell is wrong with you? You’re not one to wallow in emotions, this isn’t you. Gripping hard at the edges of the sink you work on reassembling your composure. _Get your act together,_ you chide yourself.

~

Your missing person’s case turns out to be some messed up marital miscommunications and you have Sara handle the paperwork. She eyes you suspiciously but doesn’t complain, instead she supports your suggestion to use up some of your overtime and clock out early with a sympathetic smile.

"I got you covered," she promises without further inquiries.

You thank her before you grab your spare gym bag and head out for a long overdue workout.

~

The first thing you do upon arriving at home is to take a long, hot shower and shave your face clean. Running your hand across your smooth chin and cheeks you give your reflection an approving half smile. This feels more like yourself.

Throwing on a pair of sweatpants you proceed to the living room and sort out the mail you haven’t even looked at twice when you dropped it onto the table earlier. One envelope stands out, it’s ornate cardboard and you know what is inside before you even turn it around to look at the addressor. You resist the urge to rip it in two and drop it back onto the table unopened instead.

You remind yourself that you were in the process of getting your shit together and to act accordingly. Keeping yourself busy with laundry and other chores you bustle about the house until you feel better.

It’s actually nice to have a few extra hours in your day and you decide to spend at least some of them catching up on sleep. Knowing your luck, you’re going to need it when you return for your next shift.

~

You haven’t seen them together at the resort but Greg fills you in on all the details, not just the ones pertaining to your case.

“Pretty weird, huh? She’s sharing a room with this guy, sits in the mud pool with him. If that were my fiancée…,” he trails off and shakes his head, “Hodges didn’t look too pleased when he heard about it.”

“I’ve had a bad feeling about that one from the start,” you volunteer casually.

“She claims he’s her brother, but we haven’t confirmed it, yet,” Greg continues, “so, do you think the wedding’s still on? After all, we have a bachelor party to plan.”

“How the hell would I know?” you brush him off brusquely. For a moment he looks as if he’s about to say something but then he lets it slide and goes back to the notes that are scribbled on his pad.

~

As it turns out the guy from the mud bath is indeed her brother, and the wedding is in fact still on. You don’t take the time to form an opinion about that, there is still a death to investigate and it’s getting more obscure with each new detail you uncover. The involvement of the future Mrs. Hodges becomes but a tiny side note in your case file.

~

It’s another couple of days before you open their invitation. You leave it in the desk drawer and try not to dwell on it too much. You hit the gym every other day and let Greg talk you into a night out on the town one Saturday evening. It’s the proverbial calm before the storm.

Just when you think that life’s about to take it easy on you the team gets tangled up in a serial case: Early rollouts, double shifts and a lot of take out on the way from one scene to the next – so much for a healthier routine. You barely make it home to see Sam and feel incredibly guilty on top of everything else for leaving him with the sitter most of the time. You know he’s enjoying himself over there, they treat him well and he even has some playmates, but you miss your lazy afternoons on the couch and taking him out for hikes.

Then Morgan volunteers to play bait and things get even worse. Everybody is doing their best to hold it together and work on rescuing her from whomever it is that took her. Between keeping an eye on Greg, who flies off the handle on more than one occasion, and your own worry, it takes everything you’ve got to stay focused on the task at hand.

And here is David, lashing out at people because he can’t keep his own emotions in check. He stops you on your way to the AV lab, asking for news. You tell him what you know, which unfortunately isn’t much. He looks perturbed and you think you see his hand trembling ever so slightly before he quickly balls it into a fist.

“We’ll find her,” you promise and without a second thought rest your hand on his forearm in a consoling gesture. His lips curl into a weak smile.

You can’t afford to ruminate on the way it feels for the heat of his skin to seep through the fabric of his sleeve.

You have no idea how he can still look so perfectly neat. The team practically _lives_ in the lab, you haven’t changed your own damn shirt in three days, you probably smell, but you can’t allow yourself to rest. You know exactly what it feels like to depend on your team to find you. You won’t let off before you got her back.

With a belated start you realize your hand is still on his arm.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I know something,” you offer before you turn to leave for the AV lab.

~

Having Morgan home in one piece is a huge relief. ~~~~

The whole ordeal has reminded you again of how much of a family your workmates have become - him included. And you shouldn’t ruin that with these irrational surges of attraction ( _if it was only that_ , the voice in your head chimes in). There are more important things to worry about, than your unrequited feelings and how they fuck up your mind. You’re done scrutinizing every look that lingers and every word that’s filled with double meaning for signs that there is still _something._ He has made his choice a long time ago and you are not going to let your little bouts of jealousy tell you otherwise.

Moving on is a process - you’ve learned that early but always found it hard to accept. Still, life goes on and over the course of the following weeks you find yourself feeling a lot better around him. It certainly helps that _she_ hasn’t come by for any mid-shift visits in a while and you can pretend things are mostly the way they used to be. You’re even back to some of that light hearted teasing you’ve always enjoyed. It feels good, it feels natural. Your heart doesn’t do that inadvertent stutter anymore at his stupid remarks and silly jokes - okay that might be a lie - but you’re learning to embrace it, savor the feeling instead of letting it disturb you and eat away at you like it did before. You can still be friends, right?

You’ve even made peace with the idea of that ridiculous bachelor party. Super Dave is going to tag along, as well. It’s going to be a fun little group, but you should probably watch how much you’re going to drink.

It is certainly taking a bit of effort from you but you’re learning to cope. And it only stings a little.

~

You’re tired. You’re hungry. You’ve pulled a double shift and just sat through an hour long interrogation over at the PD with a suspect you’ve been chasing after for weeks. All you want is to drop off your paperwork and clock out. What you do not want is to run into David and Elisabetta on their way out at the same time you’re walking toward the entrance of the Crime Lab. But since when has your life ever been about what you wanted?

You greet them with a casual nod and rush past, barely registering that they both have rather solemn looks on their faces. There’s no energy left in you to assess them as you head straight across the corridors.

When you pass the break room and see Finn shuffling at least a dozen plates of baked goods around you stop.

“What’s with all the cake?” you ask.

She shakes her head but lets out a good natured chuckle.

“Long story,” she offers dismissively, “help yourself to some leftovers.”

You don’t expect her to actually go into it after that but she does; she tells you all about David and Elisabetta trying to find some common ground in the midst of discovering their profound differences. You don’t want to hear it, but your stomach can’t resist temptation and you sink into a seat with a plate full of chocolate and cream filled cake while Finn goes on explaining about the cake tasting and how she told David to get more invested in the wedding preparations. Then she theorizes about him getting cold feet, obviously trying to lure you into some gossiping. The whole thing makes you even more tired.

You only half listen as she tells you how Elisabetta apparently expects David to move back to Italy with her and you barely manage to cover the grimace your face tries to make at that prospect. You can’t fathom him wanting that.

“I think those two have some serious talking to do.” She gives you a pointed look and for a moment it makes you wonder if she knows something.

“Yeah, well,” you shrug, “shoulda done that before he proposed, huh?”

You hope that you’re hiding the hurt in your voice and that you don’t sound spiteful. Finn offers you a sympathetic smile, so you guess you haven’t been fully successful with that.

Your fingers are itching to dial up Adam but that would be the third time in a row and lead into the realm of dating. You opt to hit the gym instead. Unless your eyes fall shut on the way home.


	4. (if there was) a chance to start over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable has happened. Elisabetta is out of the way... but Nick doesn't know that, yet.

The doorbell chimes.

You aren’t expecting anyone, so you keep a foot against the door as you open it, ready to kick it right shut again if need be. It’s a habit you’ve picked up over the years – you’ve been through too much shit to trust unannounced visitors to have friendly motives.

It’s him.

He looks different, if you had to put a name to it you’d say defeated. You raise a brow in an unspoken question.

“Can I come in?” He sounds uncertain, so you quickly step aside and wave him in.

Once the door is closed he just stands there, unmoving. He just stands there, looking at you.

“What brings you here?” you finally ask, the silence growing uncomfortable.

He shrugs, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair – and suddenly all you want is to reach out and slide your own fingers into the soft grey.

All you want is to hold him, make that distraught look disappear - you don’t.

Instead you watch him draw a shaky breath, obviously searching for the right words to explain. His lips open and close, yet nothing comes out.

“David?” you coax before taking a step closer to him and cocking your head to catch his gaze.

“I’m an idiot,” he blurts out and you find yourself agreeing even though you have no idea what exactly he is referring to.

“Care to elaborate?” you tease, eliciting the hint of a smile.

“Not really,” he mumbles and before you know it he has grabbed you by the lapels of your shirt and roughly presses your lips together. _Oh_.

The unexpectedness of his move almost makes you lose your balance and your hands land on his hips for support. You end up pulling him closer, leaning into the kiss as you deepen it. And boy, have you missed the taste of his tongue.

Quickly you resolve that you don’t need his explanations; don’t want to hear about his doubts or his insecurities and his need for validation, a distraction, or whatever else it is that brought him here. You have neither the right nor the will to deny him - seeing how you’ve used him in exactly the same manner on more occasions than you care to recount.

It really shouldn’t matter why he’s here; now is not the time to break a pattern or to question his intentions. Now is not the time to think – not that you could, with his hands crawling up your spine, pulling you tightly against him. Still, a part of you feels hurt and betrayed just the same. How dare he? You were just getting over it.

A strangled moan wanders from his mouth into yours and vibrates right through you, down to where your bodies are pressed flush together. You want to speak, laugh, suck, bite - all simultaneously. Too many feelings, too many questions, itching their way through your body and mind, but you refrain from breaking the moment, lest he changes his mind about this. Kissing him right now feels just too good – too right.

So you slide your hands down over his ass and squeeze, draw him even closer, as you feel both of your bodies unmistakably react. There’ll be no turning back now, you determine, as you let your hands go on roaming and groping and you unleash all your repressed emotions into a tangle of hungry kisses.

You feel his hands at the waistline of your jeans, moving from back to front, and you groan in protest when he pulls his body away, even though you realize it’s only to make room for him to fumble your fly open.

As he breaks the kiss he leaves you dazed and panting before he drops to his knees in front of you.

Closing your eyes you try to collect yourself.

“Wait,” you gasp and push at his shoulders to stop his head from moving forward, “not like this.”

The look on his face borders between confusion and disappointment but he lets you drag him back up without question.

You grab him by the nape of his neck and guide his forehead against yours.

“Bedroom,” you mutter, “I want to do this right.”

He smiles faintly and kisses you again, but the desperate urgency is fading into a different color. It’s something you have no words for but it does things to your stomach you can’t allow to surface right now. It feels like old times again and you relish in the familiarity of the change in dynamic as you take over and he lets you walk him down the hallway to your bedroom, as if it hasn’t been almost two years since you’ve had him pinned against your mattress, grunting out obscenities into the pillow.

“Let me do this right,” you repeat as you make sure to get his full attention by putting a hand on his cheek. His eyes are glazed over and he looks almost vulnerable when you lean in to kiss him, as gentle as you can.

As much as you just want to take him and consume him and just _fuck, fuck, fuck_ him, you’re determined to take your time. Whatever this is (and with him who could ever tell?) if this is your last chance to be with him you need to make it count – take it slow, make it last.

It feels indeed like it could be something final, one last time (you’ve never had break up sex - you’ve never had a break up) and yet, in a way it feels like you’re going to _make love_ for the first time.

Clothes come off in random order and you kiss irregular patterns across his newly exposed skin. He doesn’t object, doesn’t try to regain the lead – not that you’d let him - he just breathes heavily and leans into your touches while his hands are digging into the back of your head. You wonder if he’s as passive with her as he is with you, or if this is the change of pace he came back for. Your train of thought derails when David starts grinding himself up into your body.

“I’ve missed you.” The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop yourself. Sex always has this effect on you, makes your thoughts spill out like there is no barrier left between your brain and your tongue. In order to avoid more slip ups you busy your lips on his skin again and bury your nose in the wiry curls that grow across his chest. Inhaling his scent makes you feel awfully sentimental but you can’t bring yourself to care. Weeks, months of choking down memories of his body and suddenly every detail is coming right back to you. You let your hands explore and rediscover every part of him and bask in his reactions as he oh so willingly gives himself up to you.

“God, David, I want you so bad,” you can’t help panting into his neck. He groans in response and matches your every move. The sounds, the smells, the taste, are so painfully familiar and somehow still overwhelmingly new.

You slide your fingers between his, press his hands into the mattress as you thrust, thrust, thrust into him, slow and deep.

More words form on your tongue and get muffled by his damp skin - a constant chain of expletives and endearments and his name thrown in somewhere in between.

When his hands claw at you, demanding more, you let the sensations wash over you and drag you into a more frantic pace.

His face is flushed and you watch his eyes roll back behind closed lids as he comes, wordlessly but by no means quiet.

When you let go moments later he wraps his arms around your shoulders and holds onto you as though he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t.

~

He looks tired and fragile when he recovers.

You don’t usually linger, you don’t cuddle (although you think you wouldn’t mind), but what does usual even mean? Can you still say you have a routine when what you’ve had has been over for years?

Disregarding any doubts you slide an arm around his neck and tentatively tug him toward you. He rolls right into the touch and buries his face in your neck.

He still hasn’t spoken, hasn’t even complained about the viscid mess, which is so unlike him that it unsettles you - even though his actions should clearly speak for themselves.

You let the silence drag on, busy yourself by drawing lazy circles on his shoulder with your fingertips, while you wonder if you are the rebound or if she was.

“It’s over,” he breaks your reverie and your heart sinks as your brain tries to make sense of the words. So this was belated break up sex, after all.

But then he goes on talking about _her_ and how they didn’t really fit and how he should have known but didn’t want to see it and you can’t help wondering what all of that means for _you_.

“I’m sorry,” you offer, because you do not have the words to address those other issues. And anyway, you shouldn’t pressure him with your own feelings when he is already dealing with a called off wedding and the end of another relationship.

“I’m not,” he says and then moves to prop himself up a little, so that he can look directly into your eyes.

Does that mean...?

“I’ve been an idiot,” he repeats his statement from earlier and this time you have a vague idea about what he is getting at. He smiles at you, really smiles one of those rare smiles that puts a twinkle in his eyes and makes you grin at him in response.

“I won’t argue with that,” you shrug playfully, causing him to huff in faux offense.

For a moment you think he’s going to elaborate but then he just leans forward and presses his lips to yours again. That’s all the confession you’re going to get, you concede, so maybe it’s time for you to give him something in return. With your hands holding his head in place you mumble against his lips; “Maybe it’s time we both stop being idiots.”

It’s cryptic, you know, but he’s smart enough to read the meaning behind it.

And the way you keep on kissing him should really clue him in on the rest.

~


End file.
